


Fractured Realities

by lilfluffykitten



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilfluffykitten/pseuds/lilfluffykitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan is losing his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractured Realities

Jonathan is dreaming again. Had been dreaming, that much he knows although the vestiges of the dream are slipping away even as he realises he is awake. And he is awake now, he is sure of it, although it seems that with each passing day it becomes harder and harder to discern what is real and what is not. Sometimes he wonders if he has been ill, has not left London at all, and these events are merely the product of his diseased mind. He sits in the library that delighted him so much the first time he saw it, a welcome reminder of home and his familiar ordered world of law and reason, and marvels at how detailed his delusion is. He wonders when he will recover - if he will recover. Maybe he is already dead and this is his punishment for past transgressions, although he is sure he would remember any sin that would warrant this damnation. When these feelings take him all he can do is close his eyes until they pass, until he is sure that he can open his eyes and not start screaming.  
  
Delirium or no, the castle’s oppressing atmosphere wears him down and makes his head pound and his thoughts sluggish. He finds himself relying evermore on the one constant that has been his source of comfort these long weeks. However he fears he can no longer trust even this. It doesn’t matter where he hides his journal, he is sure that the entries have changed; whole pages ripped out while the remaining words have twisted into unrecognizable smears of ink. Just one more petty torture by the Count or one of his infernal minions, doubtless to make him further doubt his own sanity.  However in his more lucid moments he fears the truth is much worse, the lapses in his memory and the dried ink on his fingers causing a heavy swooning terror that overshadows all else.   
  
He’s still amazed he can sleep at all in such an accursed place, although sleep, if that is what it is, brings no respite. His dreams are twisting and confused, crowded with dreadful horrors and unnatural desires. Fractured images of cool dim rooms, the smell of rot and dust, and those devil women. Their eyes gleaming in triumph as their pale hands ghost across his skin causing him to shiver and strain towards them in anticipation of further touch. The sudden pain, when it inevitably comes, is too sharp to be part of a dream, and he comes back to himself to find that he hasn’t left the library and it is the Count bending over him instead. His breath catches in his throat as he realises he has misunderstood the purpose of the letters he’d been made to write; he believed he had more time but apparently he was to be killed tonight. He’s dimly aware that the Count is enjoying his fear and confusion, and it is this knowledge that strengthens his resolve to fight, to escape this evil place and its monstrous master, when the Count laughs, that familiar, now hated, low cruel sound, “No, my friend, you will never leave my castle.”   
  
Jonathan recoils, could it be that the Count had read his thoughts? He’s still wondering when the Count makes a curious gesture and Jonathan feels his fragile resolve fade even as his head falls back to bare his throat. It seems that he has been frozen like that forever; eyes squeezed shut, feeling his heart hammering painfully in his chest. Waiting, wanting, _craving_ that final moment of exquisite pain that will lead to blessed peace but, when he finally dares to open his eyes, it is only to find he is alone once more.   
  
He lifts a trembling hand to his throat. The wetness he feels on his fingers makes the scene shift again. The blood, his own blood, is a vivid scarlet, far brighter than blood should be and he has to bite his tongue to avoid crying out though even he is unsure if he is stifling relief or loss. The realisation he is still dreaming is an unexpected mercy that he gratefully fastens onto, but he knows that later, in the harsh and uncaring daylight, he cannot afford to believe in such fancies. The monster had promised that Jonathan would never leave his castle, proof that his days were numbered, disposed of as callously as the mother and her unfortunate child, or given over to the tender mercies of those infernal women.   
  
He still isn’t sure if he is dreaming, but everything else is becoming clearer.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for dark_fest 2010. Thanks to octoberland for the beta and smithkingsley for the helpful advice and suggestions.
> 
> Part of the slooow process of moving fic from my LJ. Obvs I don't own these characters, I own nothing of any worth… fun not profit blah blah blah!


End file.
